How Hard the Inspector Falls
by elfmaiden4legs
Summary: ****Inspector Reid takes a nasty fall whilst making an arrest - and it falls to Jackson to tend to him!


**How Hard The Inspector Falls**

Homer Jackson wasn't a bad man – he'd be the first to hold his hands up and confess to the fact that he'd done some bad things in his time, most of them as a man named Matthew Judge who'd died in what now felt like another lifetime, and a long time ago – but he didn't believe that anything he'd ever done made him a bad man. He'd taken a few lives in his time, men who'd taken many more than he, and wouldn't have thought twice about shooting him dead – it had been a kill or be kill world from which Susan and he had come, but he'd never taken the life of anyone he could say genuinely hadn't deserved it. He'd once been a man in charge of his own destiny, living by his wits in a cut throat world, and scratching a living by questionable means on the wrong side of the law. He'd come a long way from the poor, but highly resourceful medical student he'd once been, and nobody could have predicted how his life would turn out. He'd once been a king, in charge of his own empire of men – men he'd once classed as friends but who he'd quickly learnt could never be trusted not to stab him in the back in order to preserve their own pointless existence. The thought that he's once been a part of such a world now made him sick – but here in London Homer Jackson was a man living on the very edge of society, the common-law husband of a prostitute with a taste for strong alcohol, tobacco and a fancy for the ladies Inspector Reid should have been the last person he could have expected to strike up a friendship with – but Reid had seen something he liked in the street-wise, straight talking American, and for his own part Jackson quite liked the Inspector too. He'd given him a job when nobody else would, a respectable position where he could put to use the tightly honed skills of his medical degree, and Jackson was grateful for that.

It was getting dark outside, and after sewing up and stitching back together his final corpse of the day the young doctor rinsed his hands in a bowl of cold water he kept next to the autopsy table for such a purpose, watching the water turn red before him, before drying them on a scrap of course muslin, and throwing his jacket over his shoulders. The weather had turned distinctly cold over the past few evenings and there was a bitter chill in the air. Jackson wanted to get home as soon as possible tonight, spurred on by the thought of a hot bath to wash away the cake of grime and a soft, warm body to cuddle up to he locked the medical lab behind him as he left and was just about to set foot out into the still busy and untameable London streets outside – savouring the thick smoke and the smell of meat cooking from somewhere nearby on the air – when a voice called out to him from behind.

"Oi, Jackson, we need you…"

The young American sighed – Drake – he'd know that rich cockney tone if he heard it from a mile away. Reid's Sergeant didn't approve of the Inspector's choice of medic, and just as Inspector Reid's fondness of the doctor was reciprocated by the young American Jackson wasn't overly fond of Sergeant Drake either. He too had grown up on the darker side of London's streets, and was far too handy with his fists – spilling blood as though it were little more than cold water bleeding from frozen veins.

"Another body?" Jackson asked, trying his best to appear as disinterested as possible. The dead weren't going anywhere – another body could wait until morning, and such a time when Jackson had had the chance to get a good night's sleep – but as he turned to face him something within the older man's eyes made him revise his tone.

Drake's teeth were flushed deep red, his face glistened in the deep candle-lit reception, and his hair was plastered to the top of his head with sweat.

"No," The Sergeant shook his head, as he took a handkerchief from his coat pocket to mop the sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck. "This time it's Reid." He explained. "We were making an arrest down at the docks when he took a tumble down a flight of stone steps – nearly ended up in the Thames."

"Is he alright?" Jackson asked.

"A little shaken," The Sergeant explained, "rather bruised and still bleeding a little. I think you could say that he's had better days."

Jackson sighed – he still didn't see why the Inspector should require his services at this later hour, and especially for what sounded as though amounted to little more than a few cuts and bruises. He was sure that Reid must have sustained far worse in the line of his duty in the past, and Mrs Reid was surely more than capable of tending to her husband's superficial wounds at home. Even so there was something – perhaps a flicker of unease – in the other man's marginally alarmed expression which concerned him.

"How bad?" He asked.

"I think you'd better see for yourself."

Jackson then followed Drake through the maze of dank and darkened corridors – most of the small offices and overcrowded workrooms leading off on either side lit by oppressing candle-light, but Jackson didn't mind the gloom, there was something comforting about the claustrophobia of the place. The darkness reminded him of home.

The door to Reid's office had been left slightly ajar, and as Drake came to a stop outside he stepped aside to allow Jackson to enter first. Inside the small room was lit by a single candle upon Reid's desk, casting an eerie glow over everything the light touched, and the air was warm and heavy. It caught in Jackson's throat as he entered and made him cough.

Reid was sat behind his desk nursing a deep cut to his temple, with the other hand gripping at his left shoulder. His jacket was slung over the back of the seat behind him, and his shirt was dishevelled and stained with blood. As they both entered he looked up, and regarded the two men with a pained grimace.

"Drake," He spoke, and as he addressed his Sergeant Jackson noticed that his voice shook slightly. "I told you I'm fine. Jackson thank you," he added, turning now to the young American doctor, "but I don't require your assistance."

"Let me be the judge of that hey Reid." Jackson smiled, as he edged his way a little further into the Inspector's office, and allowed Drake to squeeze in behind him. The door creaked as the Sergeant closed it behind them.

Jackson did his best to put the Inspector at ease, but it wasn't easy. As a surgeon in the American Army his role had been to preserve life, not to mollycoddle his patients with false hope and promises, and the dead were certainly beyond reassurances, but he always had a tender way with the ladies, and he tried to draw upon what little bedside manner he did have now.

"I really do think it would be for the best sir." Sergeant Drake frowned, the concern he clearly felt written all over his face.

As he approached Reid's desk Jackson noticed that the Inspector was shaking – the slight tremor of his limbs had been barely perceptible from their position in the doorway, but as he slowly closed the distance between them he could observe the deep grey of the Detective's pale skin, and the thin sheen of perspiration upon his top lip and forehead as it glistened in the meagre light of the room. His nails bore into the bloodied flesh of his left shoulder, and his knuckles turned white as he massaged an injury which Jackson could not yet see.

He turned back to Drake – instructing him on what supplies he needed brought from the medical room, and when the Sergeant had left turned back to Reid.

"Are you in pain?" He asked, stepping up to the Detective's side, and kneeling down in front of him to get a better look at his injuries – there was a graze to his cheek, as well as the deep gash to his forehead, and a tear in the elbow of his shirt revealing more bloodied flesh beneath, but it was the shoulder which appeared to be causing the Inspector the most pain.

"Let me take a look Reid…" He asked of him gently, removing the man's hands from his temple and inspecting the gash carefully. His fingers gently probed the wound, and as they did so he removed a clean handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away some of the blood and apply pressure to the wound to stem the rest of the bleeding.

Reid released a pained hiss – his teeth meeting in a pained grimace.

"Sorry." Jackson apologised – taking one look at the Inspector and deciding that he didn't like the colour of his complexion. The Inspector's skin was so pale it appeared almost opaque in the dim light, but his cheeks were flushed a deep crimson red.

"Keep the pressure on that." He advised, replacing his hand holding the handkerchief to the Inspector's forehead with the man's own. "I'm afraid when Drake gets back that's going to need stitching."

He then turned his attentions to the shoulder.

"No." Reid pleaded with him as Jackson began to undo the first few buttons of the Inspector's bloodied shirt, when his hands were abruptly batted away. "Please." He implored him. "Don't."

But Jackson remained undeterred.

"What are you hiding Reid?" He frowned, as he pulled the arm of the Inspector's frayed shirt back to reveal the mass of mottled scar tissue beneath – and the young doctor immediately recoiled with surprise.

As he did Drake returned with the gauze, the thread, and a small vial of opiate which Jackson had asked him for. He stood in the open doorway, mouth hanging slightly open with shock as he observed the Inspector's mangled shoulder. In the dim candle light of the room the lone flame cast dark shadows across the narrow walls and low ceiling making the office appear smaller in size than it actually was, and the Inspector's body appeared as one large bruise as he too was cast in its eerie glow.

"Bloody hell Sir." He exclaimed.

"Close your mouth Sergeant." Jackson reproved him as he recovered himself quickly and returned to assessing Reid's injuries and inspecting the old and only partially healed wound. "You look like your attempting to catch flies."

The young American doctor was not himself officially in the employ of the East London constabulary and so had no hesitations about making his dislike of the Sergeant known. He could get away with it when others might not.

Reid flinched as the doctor's fingers retuned to probe the old wound and the skin seared, despite the fact that Jackson was obviously doing his best to keep his touch as gentle as possible – his fingers barely skimming over the flesh.

Drake shot the American an angry glance as he stepped forward to place the requested medical supplies upon the Inspector's desk, lingering there for only a moment before taking a step back towards the open doorway to give the two men some space. For a moment he'd looked as though he might have been about to react to the American's reproach, but had thought better of it.

"That didn't happen as a result of a fall did it sir?" He asked, and Jackson shook his head.

"No." The doctor turned to him in response, before turning back to Reid – who apart from his initial protests had remained silent throughout the course of Jackson's examination.

"That's a nasty scar you've got there Inspector," He sighed sympathetically, "looks like some third degree burns, and I'd be prepared to bet that this shoulder's been crushed at some point. Does it hurt?" He asked.

"It aches all the time." Reid sighed.

Jackson nodded. With an injury as severe as this had obviously once been it was unlikely that he would ever fully recover, and he'd probably suffer from some residual pain for the rest of his life.

The bone felt grainy beneath his fingers where the small fragments of crushed ossein and cartilage had failed to heal correctly, and the tissue had become a solid, heavily scared and clearly painful mound of damaged flesh.

Jackson then set about gently cleaning the surrounding tissue and stitching up the deep gash to Reid's forehead – as he did so Drake discretely discharged himself before the surgeon moved on to inspect the rest of the Inspector's injuries and bind some of the worst with gauze bandage. There was another deep graze to the side of Reid's leg where the stone had taken away the top layer of skin, leaving tiny grains of dark gravel embedded in the wound, and the palms of his hands were quite badly bloodied.

"I suppose you're curious to know how I came by such an injury." Reid asked him – referring to his shoulder – through tightly gritted teeth after a moment, as Jackson finished bandaging his hands, and started dabbing as some of the more superficial wounds with a damp cloth, soaked in an antiseptic solution.

"We all have our secrets Reid. You don't care to know about my past, and I won't ask to know about yours." He said as he finished tending to the various injuries and tossed the cloth soaked in the foul smelling liquid aside, before rinsing his hands and handing the Inspector the small vial of milky brown liquid from the centre of the table. "Here, take this." He advised.

Reid looked at him – recognising the bottle as opiate immediately he was quick to reject the medication.

"Thank you Jackson." He shook his head, knocking the other man's dripping hand away, and watching as the small vial almost slipped through the doctor's slick fingers. Thankfully Jackson managed to re-establish his grip before it slipped from his hand, and spilt its pungent contents all over the floor of Reid's office.

"Sorry." Reid apologised – he might not have been able to stand the drug, but even so he realised that it was too expensive a medication to waste unnecessarily. Everything was so expensive these days, and resources seemed few and far between. "But it dulls the mind…" He explained. "I don't like how it makes me feel... never have. I need my brain alert in order to work."

Evidently this hadn't been the Inspector's first experience of opium then Jackson thought.

"A couple of drops won't be enough to put you to sleep Reid." He reassured him, refusing to take the vial as the Inspector offered it back to him. "It's just enough to take the edge off the pain. I've done what I can for now, but there's nothing I can do for the shoulder I'm afraid."

Reid looked at him sceptically, but seeming to take in the concern in the other man's bright blue eyes he seemed to waver.

Jackson held his gaze until finally the Inspector reluctantly uncapped the small bottle and took a couple of small swigs from the vial. Tiny droplets of blood still oozed out from between the small, neat stitches keeping the deep gash upon Reid's temple closed, congealing as it dried in the warm air of the office, and gluing the two raw edges of gaping flesh together in its own fluid.

"You're a good man Jackson." He smiled his thanks, as he handed the bottle back to the surgeon. "Thank you."

Jackson shrugged. "Maybe." He said. "But I'm afraid I lied about the opiate, very soon you won't be able to resist the urge to sleep."

"I know." Reid nodded. "But you've seen us all right up until now Captain. I trust you."

Jackson simply nodded.


End file.
